


The Eulogy

by Mayoki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Not Really Character Death, Post-Reichenbach, kind of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayoki/pseuds/Mayoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is charged with writing the eulogy for Sherlock's funeral. How exactly do you sum up Sherlock Holmes? The simultaneously most brilliant and frustrating man that ever walked the planet.</p>
<p>When the time comes to read it, however, John finds that he's reading to an empty church. Perhaps Sherlock really was as hated as he claimed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eulogy

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written several years ago as response to a prompt on the LJ BBC Sherlock kink-meme. The prompt was: John has to write and deliver Sherlock's eulogy to what is initially an empty church.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, dear?’  
  
John swallowed hard, setting the pen down on the notebook his hand had been hovering over for the past hour. ‘That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson.’  
  
The elder woman offered a weak smile and gently patted his shoulder before shuffling off to make a pot of tea. There was only the two of them these days but it was a habit to make a full pot. John was glad, even if the rest went to waste. He wasn't quite ready for life to change so drastically.  
  
Deciding his writers block was there for the long term, John pushed himself to his feet and wandered over to Sherlock’s bedroom. He nudged the door open gently and leaned against the door frame. He hadn’t entered the room yet since it happened; it still felt like an intrusion. From his position he could see the bed hadn't been made. There was a stack of books by the window along with a pair of skinny dark jeans, but otherwise the room was tidy enough. Sherlock had so many possessions that John hardly knew where to start. He had been hoping Mycroft would stop by to collect them or something but the older Holmes sibling hadn’t even texted.  
  
‘Here we go, love. A nice cup of tea will help you think. I’ve bought some of those Waitrose shortbreads you boys love so much-’ her voice hitched a little as she caught herself using a plural. There was no plural any more. She removed her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve. ‘Dear me, what am I like?’  
  
John closed the door and walked over to give her a hug which she happily returned. ‘It’ll get easier, Mrs Hudson. It’ll get easier.’ John said softly as he stared down at the nearly blank sheet of paper he had been pouring over all morning.  
  
It contained three lines, two of which were scribbled out and one of which John wasn't sure was good enough. Because really what words were good enough to describe a man as brilliant as Sherlock? He was a true legend. John felt humbled to have the task of writing the eulogy fall upon himself.  
  
‘Are you still having problems?’ Mrs Hudson asked.  
  
‘Yeah. Yeah I just…I don’t know what to write. Nothing seems enough. There’s so much I want to say but I can’t put it in words.’  
  
‘You knew him best, John. You…you were the only person who knew him at all. Whatever you say will be perfect.’  
  
John said nothing, just dropped a kiss to the top of Mrs Hudson’s head and then poured the tea into the china cups. As usual he poured a third cup that would simply sit on the coffee table to go cold.  


-

  
  
It had taken an awfully long time to write the eulogy but John was finally satisfied. The morning of the funeral he dressed in a sharp black suit and tie. He caught a cab to the cemetery and took a few moments to walk around the grounds. It was a horrible grey overcast day, appropriate for a funeral. John had only ever been to three and on the two occasions it had been sunny it had felt so very wrong. The world shouldn’t be happy when someone he cared about was being laid to rest.  
  
He was, therefore, glad when it started to spit with rain. As he hurried inside the spitting had developed into an all out rain storm. The heavens were crying for the loss of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
John brushed the few drops off his jacket and ran a hand through his hair before shakily making his way into the large hall. He was a few minutes early but as he stepped inside he was taken aback to realise that nobody else had arrived yet. Not one single person.  
  
For a heart-stopping moment he wondered if he had got the right place, but knew he was being ridiculous. He then thought back and remembered he had definitely made sure to place a memo in the newspaper and he had personally called or texted the many people they had associated with.  
  
The vicar was at the front of the hall shuffling a few papers about so John walked down the aisle and took a seat on the front pew. He nodded to the vicar.  
  
John sat nervously for a few minutes, waiting for people to join him. As the minutes ticked by the vicar began to look a little restless. John discreetly checked his watch; 11:13. The service was due to start at eleven.  
  
‘I’m sorry, may we start? I have another funeral booked in at twelve.’ The vicar apologised.  
  
John turned in his seat to the door, expecting it to burst open and the crowds to pour in. For a full ten seconds he watched, then his stomach turned as he realised. They were ‘associates’ not friends. Sally’s voice rang loud and clear in his mind: “He doesn’t have friends”.  
  
John swallowed hard and turned back. ‘Go ahead.’  
  
The vicar nodded sadly. To give him his credit he performed as if the room were full to the rafters. ‘Dearly beloved, we are all gathered here today to celebrate the life of Sherlock Holmes.’  
  
John sat quietly, at war with himself. Part of him was breaking; mourning and distraught at the loss of his friend. The other part of him was furious that when it came down to it nobody cared. Yes Sherlock had been an anti-social bastard, but if people had taken the time to get past his awkward exterior they would have found a decent, funny, smart man. Nobody had ever bothered. Except him.  
  
‘And now Mr John Watson has kindly offered to say a few words.’  
  
John looked up and realised that the vicar was handing over to him. Whatever bloody good that was; he was going to be talking to an empty room. The vicar had been going through the motions, though, and despite the poor turn-out this _was_ Sherlock’s funeral. The final time John could pay his respects and say goodbye.  
  
Stiffly John stood up and took his place at the front of the hall. He turned to the front and placed his speech on the small wooden pedestal.  
  
He cleared his throat. ‘I…feel a little silly. Standing here, talking to an empty room. It feels like a dress rehearsal or something. But it’s not. This is a funeral. The mark of the passing of a great man. Probably one of the most brilliant men to have ever lived,’ shakily John sorted out his flashcards, getting on to the main speech. ‘Sherlock…was one of those infuriating people. The kind that could be anything they wanted if they put their minds to it. He could have been a fantastic doctor. A famous musician. Could have run Scotland Yard. Hell, he could have been a bloody catwalk model with his figure.’  
  
John sighed and turned back to the vicar.  
  
‘Carry on, it’ll be good for you to say these things.’  
  
John sighed again and turned back to his empty room. It tore at his heart; Sherlock deserved so much better. ‘But-’  
  
John stopped. The door at the far end of the hall was cracking open. It seemed to take an age but finally in stepped DI Lestrade. He shut the door quietly and then paused, obviously shocked that the room was empty. Dark brown eyes snapped up and then softened as he saw John. With an apologetic nod of his head Lestrade scurried to sit down on one of the pews.  
  
Well at least someone bloody cared, John though, feeling a wave of respect and gratitude to the silver haired man.  
  
‘But his own genius was too much to pin him down to one area. He lived for excitement, he lived for the highs that life could bring, even if sometimes they weren’t entirely legal.’  
  
Lestrade quirked a smile at that, but then their attention was drawn again to the door. It creaked open and Mrs Hudson hurried in, a guilty look on her face as she sat down next to Lestrade.  
  
‘He was always happiest on cases. Lestrade, you’ll never know just how much you helped him by letting him assist you. His mind was stuck in the "on" position. He could never just sit and relax, he always had to be thinking and analysing and being given the opportunity to put his mind to use was the best thing for him.’  
  
The door opened again and this time Anderson and Donovan crept in. They sat at the back but they were dressed smartly in black. They had clearly made an effort and neither were smirking or looking anything less than honestly sombre.  
  
‘He may have-’  
  
John was interrupted again as Molly entered the room. She tried desperately to stop the door creaking but in doing so managed to loudly crack the door against the wall. She turned beet red and scurried to a pew. The door was caught by a man who John knew worked in the A &E department at St Barts. He recognised him as the man that had first come to Sherlock’s aid when the idiot had thrown himself off the damn building. Apparently for over an hour the man and his team had tried everything in their power to restore life to Sherlock’s broken body.  
  
‘He may have driven us mad with his crazy experiments, and brash personality. But deep down who here can say they’d have had him any other way? Though I could have bloody killed him the time he stored cat urine in an apple juice bottle.’  
  
There was a low rumble of laughter from the now sizeable crowd. John hadn’t realised just how many people had crept in while he had been talking but now the room was full. He scanned the sea of faces; staff from St Barts and Scotland Yard, many clients they had helped over the past year and…was that Irene Adler wearing a pair of large dark sunglasses and a shawl over her head?  
  
John felt a swell of pride in his chest as he watched the ‘homeless network’ standing awkwardly around the edges because there were simply no more seats.  
  
And there, right at the back, was Mycroft. The tall man was standing perfectly still and straight, leaning on his umbrella while Anthea flagged his side. For once her Blackberry was nowhere in sight.  
  
‘We all have our quirky stories about him, and in the coming weeks and months I’d love it if we could share them over drinks as we remember the great, bat-shit insane man that was Sherlock Holmes. I’m going to miss him a hell of a lot more than I ever thought I would. But…’ his voice cracked little and he had to stop himself from reaching up to dab at his eyes. ‘I figure I’m not the only one who’ll be missing him. And I’m glad I was right. So hopefully we can all help each other through this. Thank you all for coming.’  
  
For a long moment the hall was silent and John wondered if perhaps he had dreamed the crowd. But suddenly a single clap echoed. Slowly more began to follow suit and like a wave suddenly everyone was clapping. John felt a light blush spread on his cheeks and watched as first Lestrade stood and then everyone else joined him in the standing ovation.  
  
John went back to his seat and let the vicar finish the service. Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder and John briefly turned back to catch those warm brown eyes. The two exchanged a knowing look and John felt a lump in his throat as he turned back to listen.  
  
Though he was terribly upset at the loss of his friend, he felt better. Sherlock had been loved and would be missed.

-

  
  
From just outside the small church a man sat against the head of a tombstone. He had a cigarette in his hand and was staring at the closed doors.  
  
‘Couldn't miss your own funeral?’  
  
‘Piss off Moriarty.’  
  
‘Now now, Sherlock. That’s no way to treat a friend.’  
  
‘What the hell do you know about friendship?’  
  
‘I’m attending your funeral, aren’t I? I’m even wearing black.’  
  
‘Touching.’  
  
‘You shouldn’t smoke those; they’ll be the death of you.’  
  
‘I repeat; piss off Moriarty.’  
  
Moriarty smirked, ‘he’s going to be mad at you when he realises he’s done all this for nothing.’  
  
‘He’s not going to find out. To him…to all of them…I’m dead. And I’m going to stay that way.’  
  
‘Suit yourself. Just tell me one thing; you’ve always claimed to be a cold, uncaring bastard. So does it make you feel all warm and fuzzy to see this many people care enough about you to come to your funeral?’  
  
When there was no response Moriarty got bored and wandered off.  
  
‘…Yes.’ Sherlock whispered.


End file.
